The Windup Girl

29

Despite the curfews and the white shirts, Anderson-sama seems almost reckless with his attentions. It’s almost as if he is making up for something. But when Emiko repeats her concerns about Raleigh, Anderson-sama only smiles a secret smile and tells her she needn’t worry. All things are in flux. “My people are coming,” he says. “Very soon, everything will be different. No more white shirts.”

“It sounds very beautiful.”

“It will be,” he says. “I’ll be gone for a few days, making arrangements. When I get back, everything will be different.”

And then he disappears, leaving her with the admonishment that she should not change her patterns, and should not tell Raleigh anything. He gives her a key to his flat.

And so it is that Emiko wakes on clean sheets in a cool room in the evening, with a crank fan beating slowly overhead. She can barely remember the last time she slept without pain or fear, and she is groggy with it. The rooms are dim, lit only by the glow of the street’s gaslights flickering alive like fireflies.

She is hungry. Ravenous. She finds Anderson-sama’s kitchen and roots through sealed bins for snacks, for crackers, for snaps, for cakes, anything. Anderson-sama has no fresh vegetables, but he has rice and there is soy and fish sauce and she heats water on a burner, marvelling at the methane jug that he keeps unsecured. It is difficult for her to remember that she ever took such things for granted. That Gendo-sama kept her in accommodations twice as luxurious, on the top floor of a Kyoto apartment with a view of Toji Temple and the slow movement of old men tending the shrine in their black robes.

That long-ago time is like a dream to her. The autumn sky with its clear breathless blue. She remembers the pleasure of watching New People children from their crèche feeding the ducks or learning a tea ceremony with attention both total and without redemption.

She remembers her own training…

With a chill, she sees that she was trained to excellence, to the eternal service of a master. She remembers how Gendo-sama took her and showered her with affection and then discarded her like a tamarind hull. It was always her destiny. It was no accident.

Her eyes narrow as she stares at the pan and its boiling water, at the rice she has so perfectly measured by sight alone, without a measure cup but simply scooped with a bowl, knowing precisely how much she needed, and then unconsciously settling that rice into a perfect layer as if it were a gravel garden, as if she were preparing to perform zazen meditation on its grains, as if she would rake and rake and rake for her life with a little bowl of rice.

She lashes out. The rice bowl shatters, shards spinning in different directions, the pot of water flying, scalding jewels gleaming.

Emiko stands amidst the whirlwind, watching droplets fly, rice grains suspended, all of it stopped in motion, as if grain and water are windups, stuttering in flight as she herself is forced to stumble herky-jerky through the world, strange and surreal in the eyes of the naturals. In the eyes of the people she so desperately desires to serve.

Look what service has brought you.

The pot hits the wall. Rice grains skitter across marble. Water soaks everything. Tonight she will learn the location of this New People village. The place where her own kind live and have no masters. Where New People serve only themselves. Anderson-sama may say that his people are coming, but in the end, he will always be natural, and she will always be New People, and she will always serve.

She stifles the urge to clean up the rice, to make things neat for Anderson-sama when he returns. Instead, she makes herself stare at the mess and recognize that she is no longer a slave. If he wishes rice cleaned off the floor there are others to do his dirty work. She is something else. Something different. Optimal in her own way. And if she was once a falcon tethered, Gendo-sama has done one thing she can be grateful for. He has cut her jesses. She can fly free.

It is almost too easy to slip through the darkness. Emiko bobs amid the crowds, new color bright on her lips, her eyes darkened, glinting silver hoops at her lobes.

She is New People, and she moves through the crowds so smoothly that they do not know she is there. She laughs at them. Laughs and slips between them. There is something suicidal ticking in her windup nature. She hides in the open. She does not scuttle. Fate has cupped her in its protective hands.

She slips through the crowds, people jerking away startled from the windup in their midst, from the bit of transgressive manufactuary that has the effrontery to stain their sidewalks, as if their land were half as pristine as the islands that have ejected her. She wrinkles her nose. Even Nippon’s effluent is too good for this raucous stinking place. They simply do not recognize how she graces them. She laughs to herself, and realizes when others look at her that she has laughed out loud.

White shirts ahead. Flashes of them between the trundle of megodonts and handcarts. Emiko stops at the rail of a khlong bridge, looking down into the waters, waiting for the threat to pass. She sees herself in the canal’s reflection with the green glow of the lamps all around, backlighting her. She feels perhaps she could become one with the water, if she simply stares at the glow long enough. Become a water lady. Already is she not part of the floating world? Does she not deserve to float and slowly sink? She stifles the thought. That is the old Emiko. The one who could never teach her to fly.

A man approaches and leans against the rail. She doesn’t look up, watches his reflection in the water.

“I like to watch when the children race their boats through the canals,” he says.

She nods slightly, not trusting herself to speak.

“Is there something you see in the water? That you look so long?”

She shakes her head. His white uniform is tinged green. He is so close he can reach out and touch her. She wonders what his kind eyes would look like if his hands touched the furnace of her skin.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says. “It’s just a uniform. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“No.” she whispers. “I am not afraid.”

“That’s good. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be.” He pauses. “Your accent is odd. When I first saw you, I thought you might be Chaozhou…”

She shakes her head, slightly. A jerk. “So sorry. Japanese.”

“With the factories?”

She shrugs. His eyes bore into her. She makes her head turn-slowly, slowly, smoothly, smoothly, not a single stutter, not a single jerk-and meet his eyes, return his steady gaze. Older than she first thought. Middle-aged, she thinks. Or not. Perhaps he is young and only worn down by the evils of his job. She stifles the urge to extend pity to him, fights her genetic need to serve him even if he would sooner see her dismembered. Slowly, slowly, she turns her eyes back to the water.

“What is your name?”

She hesitates. “Emiko.”

“A nice name. Does it mean something?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing important.”

“So modest, for a woman so beautiful.”

She shakes her head, “No. Not so. I am ugly—” she breaks off, sees him staring, realizes that she has forgotten herself. Her movements have betrayed her. His eyes are wide, surprised. She backs away from him, all pretense of humanity forgotten.

His eyes harden. “Heechy-keechy,” he breathes.

She smiles tightly. “It was an honest mistake.”

“Show me your import permits.”

She smiles. “Of course. I’m sure they are here. Of course.” She backs away, flashbulb movements broadcasting every kink in her DNA. He reaches for her, but she pulls her arm from his grasp, a quick twist, and then she is turning away, breaking into flight, blurring into traffic as he shouts after her.

“Stop her! Stop! Ministry business! Stop that windup!”

Her whole essence cries to stop and give herself up, to bend to his command. It is all she can do to keep running, to push herself against the lashings of Mizumi-sensei when she dared disobey, the disapproving sting of Mizumi’s tongue when she dared to object to another’s desires.

Emiko burns with shame as his commands echo behind her, but then the crowds have swallowed her and the surge of megodont traffic is all around, and he is far too slow to discover which alley hides her as she recovers.

It takes extra time to avoid the white shirts, but at the same time, it is a game. Emiko can play this game now. If she is quick and careful, and allows time between her sudden surges she evades them easily. At speed, she marvels at the movements of her body, how startlingly fluid she becomes, as if she is finally being true to her nature. As if all the training and lashes from Mizumi-sensei were designed to keep this knowledge buried.

Eventually she makes Ploenchit and climbs the tower. Raleigh is waiting by the bar, as he always is, impatient. He glances up. “You’re late. I’m fining you for that.”

Emiko forces herself not to feel guilt, even as she apologizes. “So sorry, Raleigh-san.”

“Hurry up and get changed. You have VIP guests tonight. They’re important, and they’ll be here soon.”

“I want to ask you about the village.”

“What village?”

She keeps her face pleasant. Did he lie about it? Was it always a lie? “The place for New People.”

“Still worrying about that?” He shakes his head. “ I told you. Earn up and I’ll make sure you get there, if that’s what you want.” He waves her toward the dressing rooms. “Now go get changed.”

Emiko starts to press again, then simply nods. Afterward. When he is drunk. When he is pliable, she will pry the information from him.

In the dressing room, Kannika is already pulling on her performance clothes. She makes a face at Emiko but doesn’t say anything as Emiko changes and then goes out to get her first glass of ice for the evening. She drinks carefully, savoring the coolness and sense of well-being that overcomes her even in the swelter of the tower. Out beyond the roped-off windows, the city glows. From a height it is beautiful. Without natural people in it, she thinks that she could even enjoy it here. She drinks more water.

A rustle of warning and surprise. Women drop to their knees and press their foreheads to the ground in a khrab. Emiko joins them. The man is back, again. The hard man. The one who came with Anderson-sama before. She searches for signs of Anderson-sama, hoping that he will be there too, but there is no sign of him. The Somdet Chaopraya and his friends are already flushed and drunk as they come through the doors.

Raleigh rushes to them and ushers them into his VIP room.

Kannika slips up behind her. “Finish your water, heechy-keechy. You’ve got work to do.”

Emiko stifles the urge to snap at the girl. It would be insane to do so. But she looks at Kannika and prays that when she knows the village’s location that she will have an opportunity to pay the woman back for all the abuse she has delivered.

The VIP room is crowded with men. There are windows to the outside, but with the door closed, there is little circulation. And the act is worse than when Emiko is on the stage. Normally there are patterns to Kannika’s abuse. Here though, Kannika leads her around, introducing her to the men, encouraging them to touch her and feel the heat of her skin, saying things like, “You like her? You think she’s a nasty dog? Watch. You’ll see a nasty one tonight.” The powerful one and his bodyguards and his friends are all laughing and making jokes at the sight of her, at the feel of her as they pinch her ass and tug at her breasts, run their fingers up between her thighs, all of them a little nervous at this novelty of entertainment.

Kannika points to the table. “Up.”

Emiko climbs awkwardly onto the gleaming black surface. Kannika snaps at her, making her walk, making her bow. Makes her totter back and forth in her strange windup way while liquor flows and more girls come in and sit with the men and laugh and make jokes and all the while Emiko is shown off, and then, as it must be, Kannika takes her.

She forces Emiko down on the table. The men gather round as Kannika begins her abuse. Slowly, it builds, first playing at her nipples, then sliding the jadeite cock between her legs, encouraging the reactions that have been designed into her and which she cannot control, no matter how much her soul fights against it.

The men cheer at Emiko’s degradation, encouraging escalation, and Kannika, flushed with excitement, begins to devise new tortures. She squats over Emiko. Parts the cheeks of her ass and encourages Emiko to plumb her depths. The men laugh as Emiko obeys and Kannika narrates:

“Ah yes, I feel her tongue now.”

Then: “Do you like it with your tongue there, dirty windup?”

To the men: “She likes it. All these dirty windups like it.”

More laughter.

“More, nasty girl. More.”

And then she is pressing down, smothering her, encouraging Emiko to redouble her efforts as her humiliation mounts, encouraging her to work harder to please. Kannika’s hand joins Emiko’s tongue, playing, taking pleasure from Emiko’s subservience.

Emiko hears Kannika speaking again. “You want to see her? Go ahead.”

Hands on Emiko’s thighs, pushing them apart so that she is completely exposed. Fingers play at her folds, penetrate her. Kannika laughs. “You want to fuck her? Fuck the windup girl? Here. Give me her legs.” Her hands close on Emiko’s ankles, pull them up, exposing her completely.

“No.” Emiko whispers, but Kannika is implacable. She pries Emiko’s legs wide. “Be a good little heechy-keechy.” Kannika settles herself again over Emiko, narrating her degradation to the assembled men. “She’ll eat anything you put in her mouth,” she says, and the men are laughing. And then Kannika is pressing down hard on Emiko’s face and Emiko can’t see anymore, can only hear as Kannika calls her a slut and a dog and a nasty windup toy. Calls her no better than a dildo…

And then there is silence.

Emiko tries to move, but Kannika keeps her pinned, muffled from the world. “Stay there,” Kannika says.

Then: “No. Use this.”

Emiko feels men taking her arms, pinning her down. Fingers prod her, invade her, slide in.

“Oil it,” Kannika whispers, excitement in her voice. Her hands tighten on Emiko’s ankles.

Wetness at her anus, slick, and then a pressure, cold pressure.

Emiko moans a protest. The pressure lets up for a moment, but then Kannika says, “You call yourselves men? Fuck her! Look how she jerks. Look at her arms and legs when you push! Make her do her heechy-keechy dance.”

And then the pressure comes back and the men are holding her down more tightly, and she can’t get up and the cold thing presses again against her ass, penetrates her, spreads her wide, splits her open, fills her and she is crying out.

Kannika laughs. “That’s right windup; earn your keep. You can get up when you make me come.”

And then Emiko is licking again, slobbering and lapping like a dog, desperate, as the champagne bottle penetrates her again, as it withdraws and shoves deep into her, burning.

The men all laugh. “Look at how she moves!”

Tears jewel in her eyes. Kannika encourages her to greater effort and the falcon if there is any falcon in Emiko at all, if it ever existed, is a dead thing, dangling. Not meant to live or fly or escape. Meant to do nothing but submit. Emiko learns her place once again.

All night long, Kannika teaches the merits of obedience and Emiko begs to obey and stop the pain and violation, begs to serve, to do anything at all, anything at all to let the windup live just a little longer and Kannika laughs and laughs.

By the time Kannika is done with her, it is late. Emiko sits against a wall, exhausted and broken. Her mascara has run. Inside, she is dead. Better to be dead than a windup, she thinks. She watches dully as a man starts to mop the club. At the other end of the bar, Raleigh drinks his whiskey and laughs.

The man with the mop slowly approaches. Emiko wonders if he will try to mop her away with the rest of the filth. If he will take her out and throw her into one of the trash piles, leave her for the Dung Lord’s collection. She can simply lie there, and let them mulch her… thrown away as Gendo-sama should have discarded her. She is trash. Emiko understands this now. The man pushes his rag mop around her.

“Why don’t you throw me away?” she croaks. The man looks at her uncertainly, then turns his eyes to his work. Keeps mopping. She says it again. “Answer me!” she shouts. “Why don’t you throw me away?” Her words echo in the open room.

Raleigh glances up and frowns. She realizes that she has been speaking in Japanese. She says it again in Thai. “Throw me away, why not? I’m trash, too. Throw me away!” The mopping man flinches and draws back, smiling uncertainly.

Raleigh approaches. Kneels down beside her. “Emiko. Get up. You’re frightening my cleaning guy.”

Emiko makes a face. “I don’t care.”

“Sure you do.” He nods toward the door, to the private room where the men are still reclining, drinking and talking after their abuse of her. “I’ve got a bonus for you. Those guys tip well.”

Emiko looks up at him. “They tip Kannika, too?”

Raleigh studies her. “It’s not your business.”

“They tip her triple? Give me 50 baht?”

His eyes narrow. “Don’t.”

“Or what? Or you throw Emiko into a methane composter? Dump me with the white shirts?”

“Don’t push me. You don’t want to piss me off.” He stands up. “Come get your money when you’re done feeling sorry for yourself.”

Emiko watches dully as he stalks back to his barstool, gets himself a drink. He glances back at her, makes a comment to Daeng, who smiles dutifully and pours water with ice. Raleigh waves the water at her. Sets it on top of a purple sheaf of baht. He goes back to his drinking, seeming to ignore her staring.

What happens to windup girls who are broken? She never knew a windup girl who died. Sometimes an old patron did. But the windup girl lived. Her girlfriends lived. They lasted longer. Something she never asked Mizumi-sensei. Emiko hobbles to the bar, stumbles. Leans against it. Drinks the ice. Raleigh shoves the money over.

She finishes the ice water. Swallows the cubes. Feels their cold seeping into her core. “Have you asked, yet?”

“About what?” He’s playing solitaire on the bar.

“Going north.”

He glances up at her, then flips another set of cards. He’s quiet for a second. “That’s tough work. Not something you set up in a day.”

“Have you asked?”

He glances at her. “Yeah. I asked. And no one’s going anywhere while the white shirts are pissed off about the Jaidee massacre. I’ll let you know when the situation changes.”

“I want to go north.”

“You already told me. Earn up, and it will happen.”

“I earn plenty. I want to go now.”

Raleigh’s slap comes fast, but she sees it coming. It is fast for him, but not for her. She watches his hand proceed toward her face with the sort of servile gratitude that she used to feel when Gendo-sama took her to dinner at a fancy restaurant. Her cheek stings and then floods with puffy numbness. She touches it with her fingers, savoring the wound.

Raleigh looks at her coldly. “You’ll go when it’s damn well convenient.”

Emiko bows her head slightly, allowing the well-deserved lesson to filter into her core. “You aren’t going to help me, are you?”

Raleigh shrugs, goes back to his cards.

“Does it even exist?” she asks.

Raleigh glances over at her. “Sure. If it makes you happy. It’s there. If you keep hassling me about it, it doesn’t. Now get out of my face.”

The falcon dangles dead. She is dead. Mulch for composters. Meat for the city, rot for gaslights. Emiko stares at Raleigh. The falcon lies dead.

And then she thinks that some things are worse than dying. Some things can never be borne.

Her fist is very fast. Raleigh-san’s throat is soft.

The old man topples, hands flying to his throat, eyes wide with shock. It is all slow-motion: Daeng turning at the sound of the stool clattering to the floor; Raleigh sprawling, his mouth working, trying to suck air; the cleaning man dropping his mop; Noi and Saeng at the other side of the bar with their men waiting to escort them home, all of them turning toward the sound, and every one of them is slow.

By the time Raleigh hits the floor, Emiko is already bolting across the room, toward the VIP door and the man who hurt her most. The man who sits and laughs with his friends and thinks nothing of the pain he inflicts.

She slams into the door. Men look up with surprise. Heads turn, mouths open to cry out. The bodyguards are reaching for their spring guns, but all of them are moving too too slow.

None of them are New People.